I carried you for an hour, tucking you close to my bosom in the dark.
You were as small as my forearm and as soft as the blanket my mother tucked herself in.
While she slept, I walked back and forth at the base of the bed, loving my aching arms.
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PoetryTW' trauma dumping read this in an accent, thank you. Yes, all thoughts are authentic but never original. This kills me, so I search. It would kill me less if all authenticity didn't claim healing is a forgetting through the passage of time. That t...
